


Rewind

by thomasjeffersonsmacaroni



Series: the prefix re- [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-08-29 10:23:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8485693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thomasjeffersonsmacaroni/pseuds/thomasjeffersonsmacaroni
Summary: A second memory.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Records was supposed to be stand-alone, but someone commented on it wondering what was going through Thomas's mind, so then that led me into a rabbit-hole of thoughts that led to this. Describes the same exact event as its older sibling, only through Thomas's eyes.  
> I've only ever written Jamilton from Alexander's POV, so this was a bit of a new experience from me. Hope you enjoy :)

Thomas Jefferson's house was almost entirely dark, except for a small candle lit in his living room, sitting forgotten on a small table as he stared up at the painting of him, Martha, and the children that hung in his small New York apartment. He had paid extra money for it to be painted huge, and he had shoved a wad of cash without looking at it in the hand of the coachman who had taken him from Virginia in order to get him to bring it along.

And then, when he had been putting it up, he had dropped it, knelt down on the floor, and sobbed into the carpet. Martha,  _his_ Martha, was the love of his life, and he was sure of that, even though he had taken both male and female lovers before he had met her. And she had  _died._

He hadn't left his room for three weeks, even as his daughters Patsy and Polly grieved outside. He  _couldn't._ She had been his confidant, his lover, his best friend, and she was gone. 

And the worst thing was that Thomas wanted to go to her, only her, for comfort, because she always listened to his worries and troubles. And yet here he was, with the worst trouble that he had ever faced, and she was  _gone._

The night when Thomas couldn't sleep, and he was standing and blindly looking at the painting, wrapping his bathrobe tighter around him, almost burning his hand on the candle, was the anniversary of the worst day of his life, and he was feeling the worst possible feeling. And of course some sort of strange desire for stupid fucking Hamilton, who was practically perfect in body but who frustrated him endlessly in mind, was creeping in. And in the middle of it all, his comfort object in the form of the cane that Martha had given him as his birthday gift should have been there, calming him down, but instead, its absence was tearing at his very soul.

 _I need that damn cane. I_ need  _it._

Without another thought or another motion, Thomas ran outside to his carriage, hair a wild mess, and ordered the frustrated-looking coach driver to take him to the office that all of the cabinet members shared. Once he arrived, he pushed the door open, and he immediately saw a single candle on the desk, lighting up the form of Alexander Hamilton, who jumped a foot when he stepped inside.

"Hamilton," said Thomas. "What are you doing here?"

Hamilton looked up and sighed loudly. "Just working. What are  _you_ doing here? And why the hell are you wearing a robe?"

 _Jesus Christ. He's going to tease me mercilessly, and I'm really not in the mood for this._ "Shut up. What you wear on a daily basis is much worse than what I'm wearing this one time. Anyway, I'm looking for my cane. I left it here yesterday while meeting with Washington."

"Jefferson, it's the middle of the night." Hamilton looked as if he were completely unsurprised, but also frustrated. Not in a tired way, but in a god-I-hate-this-Jefferson-guy-so-much way. Thomas would have been surprised if Hamilton ever experienced the emotion of tiredness.

"Tell that to yourself," Thomas snapped, now extremely annoyed. "Why are you working?"

Thomas walked over to Hamilton's desk and peered over his shoulder at the pile of papers in front of him. "Oh. It's your shitty financial plan." That thing, although an awful idea, was ingeniously crafted, though he would rather die than admit that to his bitter political rival.

"It won't be shitty when I'm done with it," Hamilton said defensively. He always got so defensive about his creations. It was almost adorable.

"Hamilton,  _everything_ you write is shitty." Thomas didn't love him, would never love him. He needed to hide whatever was seeping through his tiredness.

"Everything you  _say_ is shitty." Hamilton jumped on the opportunity to argue, as he always did. "I mean, your opinions on it during our meeting? I was cringing the whole time. Honestly, you shouldn't even talk."

 _Jesus fuck._ Suddenly, Thomas's anger began to seep through, and he continued the argument that Hamilton started. "I mean, I'm right. The lower classes will hate it. It's  _outrageous._ "

"Yes, but the economy will benefit from it. And I'm working on how to make the lower classes hate it less right now."

By then, Thomas had long since stood up, and he was opening all of the drawers one by one, trying to focus on searching for his cane and continuing the debate at the same time. "The lower classes will never stop hating it. The system is inherently beneficial to the rich and detrimental to the poor farmers."

"I already  _said_ that farming would still be an important part of the economy. Do you even listen to me?"

Thomas let out a long breath through his nose and opened another drawer, too tired to come up with a rebuttal to that. Behind him, he heard Hamilton's quill scratch across his parchment paper, and it seemed like Thomas would be left alone to search for his cane in peace, but then Hamilton spoke.

"Will you  _be quiet_ _?_ I'm trying to work here."

Thomas rolled his eyes. "So am I. I'm looking for my cane. That's more important than your shitty legislation."

"No, it's not. Your cane benefits no one. My system will benefit  _the entire country._ "

He was so annoying. So damn frustrating in cabinet meetings, such a pain in the ass with his political opinions and how much of a ball of unstoppable energy he was. And Thomas was too tired for this, too tired for  _any_ of this, and everything in his life was overwhelming him, so he gripped the drawer with both hands, breathed in, and, without thinking, muttered, "Hamilton, you are so insufferable. How the hell do I love you?"

A beat, in which Thomas stared at his hands and began to regret his life decisions. Then: "What did you say?"

"Do you know why I don't believe in God, Hamilton?" Thomas moved over to the other drawer, looking down and away from the person who definitely didn't love him, but maybe-

"No, and I don't care."  _Definitely not._

"It's because no god would be cruel enough to give such a perfect figure to someone so damn frustrating."

Thomas searched for the cane meticulously, waiting for the reply that never came. He had gotten his frustrations off of his chest, and that was all he needed; yes, his love, or whatever it was that he was feeling, was unrequited, but that was okay. He wasn't entirely sure what he had been expecting when he had confessed.

The cane wasn't in the cabinet that he was looking at, so it must have been in the one at the very far corner of the room. He had stood up and was moving there, and he was just about to open the top drawer when Hamilton wrapped his arms around him and kissed him on the cheek, close to his mouth but not quite there.

Thomas turned around and kissed him back, on his perfectly full lips, without a second thought, and both dropped down on the floor, Hamilton's hands running through Thomas's hair and Thomas stroking his back under his shirt. It was everything that Thomas had wanted and more, and he wondered why they hadn't done this earlier. They were near each other so often, and-

Suddenly, Thomas was filled with worry, and when he was on top of Hamilton, he broke their kiss and looked down at him worriedly. "Hamilton, you're married. And if we're caught, we'll be hanged. And I don't know if we can continue this for long, someone's bound to find out, and-"

"One night, then," Hamilton whispered, wrapping a hand around his neck and smiling up at him. "Just for one night, we have time to ourselves. Just one night."

He always knew what to say. Even now. "One night. Just one night."

Hamilton nodded and leaned up, kissing him on the lips and pulling him down so that they were on the same level.

The rest of the night Thomas would always remember in vivid detail. Alexander had been at a loss for words except for Thomas's own name, and Thomas could do nothing more than say "I love you," which was truer than almost anything that he had ever said. They touched each other in places that they would have never even thought about otherwise, they kissed with the furor of lovers who were meeting for the very last time but were trying to think of anything but that, and when the sun rose, bright rays peeking through the window and awaking them, Thomas stood up, looked at the still-sleeping man, pressed one last kiss to his temple, and opened the cabinet door to resume his search.

And that was all. That was their final meeting as anything other than sworn enemies and therefore the final meeting when both were happy. And, perhaps, the first and the last time that Thomas was truly content.

 

Alexander Hamilton would never be satisfied. But for one night, Thomas Jefferson had been.

**Author's Note:**

> I hate this


End file.
